


Guess Who Died Last Night

by IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow



Category: The Fall (TV)
Genre: "Character death", F/M, Hunter/Hunted, Inspired by trailer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 08:24:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1975926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow/pseuds/IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He watches her body, still and silent in the large bed. Her arms are splayed across the sheets, one hanging limp, nails painted jezebel red. Jezebel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guess Who Died Last Night

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the new trailer for series 2 and by a prompt from jajacactusflower.
> 
> Please read an review!!

He has a vision in his head as he watches her face on the screen, hears her voice. A vision that he only aconsciousness when he’s home alone, luckily something that’s quite frequent now. His eyes close and he thinks of her. What she will become

He watches her body, still and silent in the large bed. Her arms are splayed across the sheets, one hanging limp, nails painted jezebel red. Jezebel.

He crosses the room and stares at her dried lips, her wide grey eyes staring blankly at nothing. He wants to undress her from the white blouse he imagines her wearing, but he can’t right now. He needs to feel her skin under the palms of his hands- needs to feel the sensation of her last breath escaping her body.  He inhales sharply, feeling the erection rise in his pants.

He knows exactly how he would kill her, and his head drops back as he drowns himself in the hallucination, in his dream for her… _their_ future.

* * *

 

He slides into her room while she’s sleeping, noticing her untouched salad and notes on the floor. Her files are flipped open with bodies splayed for crime scene pictures- it was their time to shine. He wonders if she expects her own photo to be the next in the file. Expects the dry lips and red nail varnish he foresees for her.

Of course she doesn’t.

She seems to sense him and her eyes snap open, immediately reaching under her pillow, but he’s on top of her, pressing his hand over her mouth, while the other grabs her wrist. He finds the knife there and tosses it across the room. He looks down into her eyes and sees her staring back at him, determined, before she whisks her eyes from him. Refuses to give him her attention. She wasn’t surprised. She had expected him. The sudden anger takes over his body in a rage.

 _“Now you’ve got me to yourself,”_ was the last thing she’d said to him in her sultry, demanding voice. He remembers the phone conversation fondly. He did have her all to himself, truly. He was in control of her. She didn’t seem to realize that.

She was supposed to beg. He wanted her eyes to search and her cries to make beseeching demands, like the others. He wanted her to be consumed by fear. These strong women in power, these successful women, they were supposed to plead for their lives.

 She didn’t.

Her arms jut from his touch when her knee slams into his crotch. She claws and kicks. Her fingers, clean and unpolished, sink into his skin, as she attempts to reach for his eyes, sink her thumbs deep into the sockets. He easily moves out of the way of her small wingspan, capturing her hands once again as he takes her whole body and slams it against the headboard. She is incredibly light and like a ragdoll. He’d never realized how small of a woman she actually was. Her eyes unfocus. She isn’t staring at him, but her eyes have shifted to view the morning sunrise, as if she’s simply waking for a day of work, as if this isn’t the last moment she’ll be alive.

When he finally moves his hands to her throat, his favorite part, she doesn’t move her eyes from the window. They continue to stare blankly as they water. _No. No. NO. NO._ She was supposed to gape, but she’s looking out of her window, her eyes wide like saucers from the pressure around her neck but fearless. She was supposed to look at him with poofy, red-rimmed jutted eyes and gawk helplessly, pathetically. He was in control of her life. He decided when she died. Why wasn’t she staring at him? Why wasn’t she begging, and sobbing like the others?

His hands tighten and release around her throat, and she shakes and gasps under him, fighting for air to fill her lungs. Her eyes close in pain when he presses his knees into her pelvis, hoping it will get the response he wants. She whimpers and her face hardens , turning fully from him, eyes tightly closed in rebellion. Still, she doesn’t look at him; doesn’t see him. He releases a hand from her neck and grabs her face forcefully, cheeks soft in his hand. He can feel her creamy concealer in his finger pads

“Look at me,” he growls, squeezing her cheeks together, her lips parting to resemble a fish. She trembles and he thinks he’s won her over, waits for her to open her eyes and look at him. When he releases her face, he’s sure there’s a smile on her lips as she opens her eyes and stares at the rising sun once more. He suddenly wishes for the knife he’d thrown from her grasp, imagines sinking it into her skin. She would look at him then. Her voice is hoarse and barely squeaks past her damaged larynx, but he hears her in the silence of the room.

“Impotent”

He squeezes with all of his force, the full weight of his body on her torso. Her shoulders protrude, exposing her beautiful collar bone, but she doesn’t look at him as her chest heaves, trying to get air. Her control is immense and he wishes for bigger hands, wonders if she could feel her lungs shriveling. She would beg by the time he was finished.  She stops, and he feels his body become rigid. Her body becomes slack under him. She’s dead. She will never beg.

And he feels pathetic.

Her eyes are nonchalant and stare up to the heavens; never at him. Even in death, she doesn’t give him control. He leans close and maneuvers his body appropriately, pretending for a moment that she’s staring at him. She isn’t. She’s dead by his hand and he’s never felt weaker. He can’t bear to remove her clothes, to bathe her. He can’t even paint the nails he saw in the beginning of his fantasy, when he was so thrilled to imagine her dead. He just stares at her, waiting for her to stare back.

 _“You’re a slave to your desires,”_ he hears her voice echo in his head

He hears sirens in the distance

 _“You fucked up”_ the dead body declares, sitting up as if nothing happened and looking at her cell phone, his face plastered across it. Belfast would know him, the picture now viral. She looks out the window, right past him.

But she doesn’t look at him.

* * *

 

He startles out of his dream, shaking. He can’t stop thinking of their conversation.

_“I know your name is Peter,”_

He watches the video again, watching her smooth, rough voice speak to the audience. The varnish glinting on her skin. Her lips purse. Open and close.

“ _You have no control at all.”_

He watches the video yet again. Again. And again, listening to her voice. She doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t have control. He can’t feel her pulse in his hands, her shaky breath on his wrists, her pleading eyes staring at him. But he will. Soon.

He won’t make the same mistakes he made with Annie Brawley. He will plan. She will not control him.

But for now he just stares at her, waiting for her to stare back.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read my story! I'm still working on my feel for writing Stella, but I hope you liked this anyway! :D
> 
> If you would like me to write something for you that is Stella, Bedelia/Hanni or Scully/Mulder themed, please message me :)


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